"Red Phone Box"

A red phone box in London,
everybody else walks past,
the tourists aim cameras
at nearby monuments,
then shrink into the distance
towards another statue,
the workers rush past
the crowds to catch red buses
or descend underground
where tube trains shoot past
in all directions like
a storm of meteors,
and when the rain falls
umbrellas are raised
and people scatter
but the red phone box
stands alone,
pounded by the falling floods,

alone in the day
when swarms of people huddle past,
alone in the night
when only drunks search for a way home

and the footsteps never stop coming
from ahead
and the footsteps never stop coming
from behind
and the sun never stops rising
in the east
and the sun never stops setting
in the west
and the rain never stops visiting
uninvited
and the grey clouds never stop trying
to hide the forgotten blue
and the tourists never stop moving
along their trail of statues
and the workers never stop running
from home to the workplace,

a red phone box in London,
no journey and no destination.
If I could I would give her legs,
put some coins in her and say
“go, you’re free” and she’d say
“go where?” and I’d say
“anywhere and everywhere
just keep going that way
where the sun sets,
see the other busy London streets,
the boujie wine bar avenues,
the concrete space-age council estates,
the white and leafy suburbs,
the green hills in the countryside
and the fresh and pure smell of autumn leaves
in the soaking rain,
and keep going until you find it”
and she’d say “what is it?”
and I’d say ”it for you is different to it for me
and only you can find it and feel it
and know that it is yours”
and she’d say “but what about the pavement here?”
and I’d say “what about it?
have no fear
the world is yours.”

by Lennie Bezwik



A break in the rain showers early this afternoon on the corner of Cavendish Square and Wigmore Street, London W1